Human Development
by SwordofRohan
Summary: „I'm sorry." Mitchell said and was astonished that he truly was. Not for himself or for someone he had killed for a change, but for someone else. How Mitchell and George meet and come to live at the pink house. Just some missing scenes.
1. Chapter 1

It was a dark evening in November, cold and damp, and Mitchell was walking the streets of Bristol with a frown. Seth had summoned him to some place on the outskirts of Bristol, a night-café where streetwalkers would get a coffee to warm up and drunks would have greasy sausages first and vomit later. When his phone was buzzing again, he sighed and texted Malcolm that he was on his way. That dude had texted six times in the last hour, reminding him of their appointment and that Herrick had insisted. Mitchell was pissed off at the idea of meeting three of Bristol's dumbest vampires when he had just finished a truly shitty doubleshift at the hospital that was plagued with the Noro virus. He would miss „The Real Hustle" and have to listen to Seth's babbling instead. But he knew better than to skip the appointment. He had to reassure Seth he was still to be reckoned with and thus calm Herrick who panicked at the idea of a vampire staying off blood, especially his golden boy, the orphan maker, the stuff of legend.

Mitchell let his cigarette stub fall in the gutter and ran his fingers through his shabby locks, getting himself ready to enter the café and meet the vampires. But before he could get round to the front entrance, he heard muffled cries and the sound of fists punching flesh.

„C'mon boys, my turn now."

That was Seth. Beating up some poor soul, no doubt, before tearing their throats and hearts out. That was how Seth liked to feed. Or to play. Which to him was the very same.

In the dim light of a street lamp he watched Seth and Malcolm and Big Ben kick someone who was already down and lay unmoving between the litter. He walked closer and smelled blood and fear and wet dog.

„Wow! What are you doing?"

„It's a lyco! Working at the café!"

„Got something to say Mitchell?" Seth grinned his predator grin, just waiting for Mitchell to make a wrong move.

„How many people in the café?"

„Few."

„Aha." He rounded Seth. Christ, if stupidity would smell, Seth would stink worse than the werewolf laying in the puddle of rotten food and waste.

„Anyone see you leave?"

„Does it matter?" Malcolm was shouting now, clearly frustrated that Mitchell had interrupted his evening's fun.

„I don't know, Malcolm. Their kitchen guy turns up dead, and they've seen all you guys slink after, and maybe they see the connection."

„So? They don't know who we are."

„They do." Big Ben seemed embarrassed. „I got here before you arrived and got talkin' to the owner. His mum died and he needed an undertaker and I sort of gave him our business card."

„We don't even have a real business!"

„Look." Mitchell argued. „I've got no love for lycos but that's a big trail you're leaving there."

„Alright." Seth grinned thinly and handed him a pair of glasses that must belong to the werewolf. He waved his minions off and left Mitchell on the street, the appointment forgotten.

The lyco moved and struggled to get up, and Mitchell noticed his white sneakers so out of fashion and enormous ears that made him look like a dog. Life could be so ironic.

„They were going to kill me!" The man exclaimed, his voice shrill and shaking.

„Yeah."

„What? Why?" The lyco was sobbing now, his lip trembling, his fingers curling in his too big trousers.

He was pathetic, with all that blood on his face and that childlike look of utter desperation in his eyes. Mitchell just stood and watched him, fascinated by the display of fear and self-pity and weakness.

„They don't like werewolves."

He walked over and handed the sobbing creature his glasses. The lyco stared at him in fear and disbelieve.

„How did they know?"

„People like us can recognise people like you."

The bleeding man managed to get up, his back against the wall. He stared at him, clearly not understanding. Could he really not know? How could a werewolf not know about the hatred between his kind and vampires. Or didn't he even know that other supernatural creatures existed? Didn't he know of all the monsters out there?

„People like you?"

„Vampires."

The lyco stopped crying and looked at him, his eyes were wide and blue and innocent, and Mitchell had to lower his gaze and turn away.

„Do you live near here?" He scanned the buildings around so he wouldn't have to look at the pitiful creature, completely aware how ridiculous he behaved – as if he would expect a sign that read „werewolf's lodgings" in neon lights.

„I have a room above the café. Did you just say vampires?"

„You gonna have to leave. They are coming back, they always do."

The man stared at him, his mouth hanging slightly open, blood trickling down his split lip.

„I'm sorry." Mitchell said and was astonished that he truly was. Not for himself or for someone he had killed for a change, but for someone else. Someone who looked so completely and utterly shaken, so hurt and vulnerable that he wished he could have done something other than scare Seth away. Something to help.

Jesus Fucking Christ, that was a lyco. What was he going to do? Adopt a stray dog?

He dug his hands in his pockets and turned to leave.

„And then what?" The man shouted.

Mitchell stopped and turned round.

„I've lost everything." There was anger in the werwolf's voice, and desperation. „I've had this for six months, and now there are vampires and they want to kill me."

Slowly Mitchell walked back to face him, curiosity igniting. There seemed to be more to the werewolf than he had thought. Strength, passion, life. Life. Fuck, he envied that stinking dog.

„So I have to leave. Again." The young man's voice cracked with tears, his hands came up in a helpless gesture. „And then what?"

Loneliness. Fear. Pain.

Mitchell knew what. Had been through it. Over and over again. Mostly because of his own doing, trying to get away from Herrick or from a gruesome scene after his bloodlust had taken over. Sometimes he had to flee because others wanted to kill him. But the worst times had been when he had been dumped by those he loved. When Josie broke up with him because she felt old whereas he would always be twenty-four and frozen in time, when she needed to seize the opportunity of getting married and becoming a mother. When Carl had wanted him to leave and take responsibility for himself.

„You can come with me." He said.

„What?"

„I have a sofa you can sleep on."

„So that you can… what? Drink my blood? No, no, nooo. Thank you very much!"

„I'm not going to feed on you. You are a werewolf, that is disgusting."

„Kill me then? You yourself said people like you don't like people like me!" The man was working himself up in a hysteric fit.

„Yeah. I save your sorry arse just to kill you on my sofa. Blood never washes out, believe me, I know."

The man took his glasses off and cleaned them on his torn shirt.

„Thanks for your offer, be it generous or not, but no thanks. I will go back to work and sleep in my own bed in my own room. I cannot allow any more of this happening to me." He put his glasses on, sniffed and straightened his shoulders.

„Thank you for saving my life back then." He nodded and walked back to the café on slightly unsteady feet.

„Hey! You have to leave, mate. This is serious!"

„So am I."

Mitchell stared. That stupid lyco had no idea what he was up against. Then he shrugged. He had done all he could and more than he should. Imagine a werewolf in his flat. Would the dog drink out of the toilet? He grinned and lightened another cigarette. If he managed to get home quickly he would even be able to watch the last bit of „The Real Hustle", order a pizza and get a nap, before he had to leave for work again.

The night after the werewolf-incident he was back in the same street, entering the night-café after another particular lousy shift. All the patients seemed to be determined to make his life worse than it already was, and he had spent almost the entire afternoon and night mopping up vomit and diarrhoea and on top had been slanged by some bloody doctor for smoking on the stairs. That nurse, Lauren, had been trailing him again, smiling and blushing and obviously trying to find something to talk about, and although she was kinda cute, really, he had been rude and made her sweet smile crumble. She fancied him obviously (Did one even say fancy anymore?), which was completely unnerving. There was no way he could get involved, although her eyes really were a beautiful and bright blue and she had dimples when she smiled and would always think of getting him a coffee from the cafeteria.

He had thought about asking her out for a brief moment and then ducked, splashing water on the floor and her feet to angrily continue mopping. Yes, it would be nice to go on a date that would lead to sex and intimacy and maybe even a bond. A girlfriend. But the risk that it led to the taking of blood and another innocent life was too high.

He had managed to stay sober for almost a year now. He had been on and off blood since the seventies, but he always fell. Of course he did. He was a bloody vampire.

It happened mostly when he was lonely. Not that he wasn't always lonely these days, lonely by choice. He stayed away from the vampires, from Herrick's lot and they let him be. He stayed away from humanity as best as he could, working in a low profile job, knowing nobody would cast a second look. He walked home instead of going on the bus where he smelled their skin and the blood that was being pumped through the veins underneath. He didn't go to the cinema, a disco or a rock concert for the smell drove him insane, made his head spin, his mouth water and his fangs eager to grow, hurting his gum. His undead heart was racing then, his palms were sweaty and he couldn't remember any more why he didn't allow himself to draw blood. Why he didn't want to taste it, that delicious, hot and sticky liquid that filled every fibre of his being with lust and satisfaction and glory and life.

He knew he couldn't keep the monster under control, so he stayed away from humans. But once in a while he just couldn't help it.

An advertisement of a dance class would bring memories of ballet shoes, heavy eyeliner and a smile to get lost in. A certain song on the radio would remind him of elegant yet strong fingers playing the piano.

He usually got pissed then, big time. Sometimes he passed out on the counter or on a bench outside the pub. Other times he got chatted up, by women who would play with their hair and tilt their head, lick their lips and put a hand on his knee. Sometimes he would shake his head, no thanks, and resume his silent drinking. But most of the times he would smile and invite them for a drink. He was lonely, damn it, he needed someone to talk to, someone who would listen to him, even when all his stories about his job and his family were made up. He needed their fingers brushing his forearm, their eyes looking into his, he needed the warmth radiating from their bodies that would at some point later in the night seek to be close to his. He needed to press those bodies against the nearest wall, needed to feel him becoming hard, needed those breathless kisses, his tongue exploring their mouths and the skin of their necks. He needed to get under their clothes, to touch the soft shivering and yet oh so warm skin, to follow the curves of their breasts, hear them moan in his mouth and needed to respond throaty when they would fumble with his belt and unbutton his jeans to stroke him and guide him. He needed to gasp when he entered them, needed his breath become ragged as if he really had to breathe, he needed the rhythm of bodies moving together, needed to grab their hair with his fist when his mind would shut down and his body would feel and the sensation would become nearly felt human then, truly human, and he felt. Until he would come and his fangs would come and hack exposed necks and tear veins and his tongue would no longer lick soft skin but hot blood and the women would no longer moan in lust but in pain and fear. He would drink and feed and suck the life out of that delicious flesh, until they would be just a dead shell and, Christ, he couldn't even remember their names.

He would leave them mostly where they had fallen, crumbled in a dark alley or in a corner of their flats, some shabby, some chic, and call Herrick to get rid of the waste.

And although he never spoiled precious blood and never left a mess like he used to, his sire was always pleased when he called him, Big Bad John back on track, and he would send the cleaners to dispose of the bodies and talk about old times and what a mess they made then, eh Mitchell, do you remember the twins, that really was something. He never liked those phone-calls, even in his blood-drunken state when he couldn't care less, and he usually managed to keep them short and retreat into privacy after.

He would be high for some days, with the stolen blood rushing hot through his veins, his heart pumping and beating so fast it almost hurt, and he would feel alive and ecstatic, and then he would fall. Tears and self-loathing would follow and the often-broken vow not to fall off the wagon again, not to kill, not to unleash the monster.

He didn't want to do this, not to his victims, not to himself.

His job at the hospital helped. From time to time he managed to steal a blood bag, and although it was disgusting, cold and dead and made him gag, it still supported him.

The lyco-bashing from the night before had occupied his mind, he found himself thinking how the sorry werewolf would be faring and whether Seth had come back to finish what he started. And so, after finishing his shift, he hadn't gone home but back to the café and wasn't surprised at all to see the bruised and swollen face of the kitchen-boy.

But the man was surprised to see him.

He let out a little shriek that would have been comical hadn't it been for the terror in his face.

„What… what do you want?"

„Coffee. Black."

„What?"

„Coffee. This is a café, right?"

„Oh, yes, of course, it is. There is a sign at the door. Really, Coffee?"

„Yes. Please."

„But… You said you were a vampire."

„Why don't you shout a little louder? I think a little granny in Clifton hasn't heard you properly."

„Oh. Sorry. But I thought, vampires drink blood."

He shrugged uncomfortably. „Yeah."

The werewolf stared at him.

„Not… you know, solely. We eat and drink like everybody else."

„Aha."

The werewolf continued to stare.

„What?"

„Oh, gosh, I am sorry. But I have never met a vampire before. Well, obviously there were those three who… you know. But I watched „Interview with a vampire" and „Underworld" and you look just so… ordinary."

„Ordinary?" Mitchell arched an eyebrow. He didn't know what he looked like, he couldn't remember. All he knew was he had dark hair and a stubbly chin because in all his vampire-years he had never learnt how to shave properly without being able to see himself in a mirror, but other than that? He had to rely on what others would say about him, and that had been mostly pleasant. He was easy on the eye, a looker, handsome, even beautiful to some. He had been called fiend, devil, monster. But ordinary? He couldn't recall ever being called ordinary before.

„Um. Sorry. Yes, ordinary. Like a normal guy. You are not even ghoul pale. Aren't you supposed to have fangs?"

„Have." Mitchell murmured. „They come out only when… you know… I am about to feed. I haven't done that in a long time. So, no fangs. Can I get a coffee now?"

„Are you saying that you are… what? Abstinent? Are there support-groups, AA's? No, that would have to be AB's, Anonymous Bloodsuckers!" The man grinned and winced slightly when his cut lip stretched and cracked open again.

Mitchel watched the single red drop roll down the lip, leaving a trace on the man's clean shaven chin and drop onto the counter. He swallowed. Thank God, that was lyco blood or he would have licked it right off the counter. He sniffed, suddenly aware of the exhausted looking whore sitting at the table just next to him, her pale flesh exposed, her blood pulsing through blue veins in her neck. His hands were trembling suddenly and he put them in his lap. He swallowed again and closed his eyes. Bad idea to come here. Fuck. Very, very bad.

He should go home quickly, out of the danger-zone of living, hot-blooded creatures, but it was quite a walk to Knowle West, what if he encountered a drunkard in a lone alley? Maybe he could get a cab. No, that would be like canned food.

He had no choice but to stay and hope he could get a grip on himself.

A mug of coffee was placed on the counter before him, and he slowly and very carefully wrapped his fingers around it and let the heat seep into his icy skin.

„How do you kill a vampire?" The werewolf asked, his voice quivering nervously.

„What?"

„Stake? Sunlight? Holy water? Silver bullets? No, wait, that was for werewolves. Is that really working?"

„I don't think the bullet has to be silver. A nice clean shot in a vital organ will do the trick."

"Reassuring. What about vampires?"

„Stake. Through the heart. Beheading or burning will work fine. But forget about sunlight. Not sure about holy water though. I think if you meet a religious vampire, yes, that could do quite a damage. Are you planning on killing me?"

„You? Why should I? No, I just thought I should be able to defend myself."

"Yes, you should. But sorry mate, I just don't see you ramming a stake into a beating heart, vampire or no."

„No, you are probably right. But… six months ago I didn't see myself work in a shitty café and be a monster. I was studying at Cambridge! Did you know I have an IQ of 156 and speak six different languages? No, of course you didn't. I had a fiancé and a very good job offer and life was perfect and then I had to go to Scotland on a bloody holiday and talk a walk at night and get attacked by some animal."

„Sorry."

The lyco laughed hysterically.

„Life has been hell since then. The first time this… it… that… _thing_ … happened, I was still at the hospital. For some reason I felt I had to run into the woods, and then…" He took his glasses off and closed his eyes. When he eventually put his glasses back on, his fingers were trembling and his eyes were teary. „I woke up lying next to a dead deer, its throat ripped out and its guts were spilled all over me. Can you imagine the horror?"

Thankfully the agitated man didn't wait for an answer.

„It took me some time to figure out what had happened to me. It's the bloody twenty-first century, we fly into space and I am turned into a werewolf! And now vampires!"

„The werewolf who made you. Didn't they teach you anything?"

„I never saw what attacked me."

„Oh."

„Did you?"

„What? See what attacked me? Yes. I did."

He took a sip of coffee, feigning casualty.

„Were you scared?"

„Out of my wits." He shrugged. „Which actually wasn't a big deal. I was already pissing in my pants. We had a week of air raids. Half of the company were already dead before we were ordered to march on. Funny. At the time I thought there was nothing more evil than poison gas leaving half dead men caught in barbed wire and screaming for their mothers. That was before I encountered the vampires, of course."

The man stared at him. „Wait. Are you talking about having fought in war? Which? Afghanistan? Did they really use poison gas in Afghanistan? I thought Bush made that up!"

„Germans. In Flandres."

The man's eyes got big. „World War One? Are you kidding?"

Mitchell took another gulp from his coffee and put a cigarette between his lips.

„No smoking." The werewolf said automatically. „Really?"

He lightened the fag and inhaled deeply, letting the smoke out through his nose.

„Really."

„Bloody hell."

„Exactly what it was."

„The vampire who turned you. What was he like? What was it like? No, you don't have to answer that. Did he teach you?"

„He did."

„Did he ask you? If you wanted to become one?"

„Sort of, yes."

„And you agreed? Didn't you read „Dracula"?"

„No."

He looked at the fag and the little flakes of ash that fell from its tip because of his unsteady hand. They were circling in the smoke like ballet dancers. He closed his eyes.

„More coffee?"

„Beer." The werwolf nodded and opened a bottle.

„That's on me. For yesterday. Without you…"

Mitchell looked up from the bottle. „They will come back. And they will kill you."

„So you want me to run."

„It would be a good idea."

„Mhm." The man extended his hand. „I am George, by the way."

He shook it, a little reluctant maybe, but still. „Mitchell."

„Is your offer still standing? The couch?"

Damn. He had nearly forgotten. He wasn't too keen on having a lyco staying at his place. Were dogs even allowed to sleep on a couch?

„Sure." He emptied his bottle and gestured for another one. „Until you find a new place."

„Of course. Just this night if that's okay with you?"

„You have to quit your job as well."

George looked around and smiled. „A great career going down the drain." He opened himself a beer and clinked bottles. „Cheers."

When they left the café and collected George's belongings from the room above, it was nearly ten o'clock in the morning and Mitchell was more than slightly drunk. Otherwise, he figured, he would never have agreed to George emptying his crammed book-shelve into several boxes to take with him. When he stepped out on the street, balancing bloody heavy boxes and plastic bags full of clothes, a pale November sun was pricking his skin, and he shoved his big, dark sunglasses on his nose, protecting his eyes. Mitchell ignored George's curious look and wondered whether he was out of his mind. Sure, George didn't seem dangerous, but hell, he was a werwolf. On a full moon he would rip Mitchell's head off in the blink of an eye. The dog could stay this night and then he had to leave. And Mitchell could only hope that Herrick never found out.

Back at his sorry flat he fumbled with his keys, two heavy boxes balanced between his knee and chin, bags dangling from his arm, and eventually managed to open the door. Once inside he felt like just collapsing under the weight of Georges possessions and sleep right on the floor. Jesus, he was tired. George, on the other hand, seemed to be overexcited. He manoeuvred his possessions into the tiny flat and examined bathroom and kitchen and his face fell. Both didn't seem to answer his expectations. He stared into the empty fridge and shut the door.

„Right." He said. „What about I go and buy something for breakfast? And maybe general stuff like pasta and potatoes and vegetables and some fruit. You seem to have run out of groceries."

Mitchel took his sunglasses off and stared at the werewolf.

„Beer. Beer would suffice. And tobacco." He tossed him the keys. „Don't run into any more vampires please."

George grinned. And then his grin faded. „Do you think I will? Do you think they followed us?"

„No. They don't come here, they leave me are safe for now."

„Right." George seemed hesitant. „You sure you don't want to come along shopping?"

„No way. I really need some sleep. I have a double shift again."

„You work?"

„Of course I work. I have rent to pay."

George looked around, frowning. „Somehow I thought vampires were living in castles and were absurdly rich."

„Welcome to reality." He waved him good-bye, tossed a blanket on his worn-out couch for George and retreated into his bedroom. He was too tired even to brush his teeth, just got rid of his boots and jeans and crawled under the blanket.


	2. Chapter 2

He had trouble to breathe. Ash was raining out of an orange sky, the air thick like smoke, getting into his lungs and his eyes. The earth was soggy and held his feet captive, rivulets were running across the dark soil, the water red like blood, no wait, that was blood. The ground was covered in blood, his hands were red, drops of blood were dropping from his fingers, his chin, getting into his eyes. The sound was driving him mad, that constant drumming of shots like a hundred hearts beating furiously. He could see those hearts, ripped out of their torn open bodies, bloody on the ground, still beating, mocking. Dead eyes were following him, watching him as he took one of those pulsating hearts in his hand, felt its weigh and warmth and squeezed it until the meat protruded from between his fingers.

„Mitchell." A voice whispered, and soon was joined by another one. „John Mitchell!"

Through the ash and smoke, in the orange light, they approached him, whispering his name without needing vocal chords for those had been ripped out together with their throats. „John." „Mitchell."

Pale fingers touched his body, blue lips brushed against his cheek, breaths like icy wisps against his ear. He stumbled backwards and was caught in a line of bodies, wrapping their arms around him. „Mitchell." „Do you remember me, Mitchell?"

Yes. No. No, please.

A machine gun was firing and the bodies twitched, screams filled the blood-red air. Screams so loud he wanted to cover his ears but found he couldn't. He couldn't move, he couldn't breathe. He struggled but was dragged down by what was left of the bodies, an arm around is chest, a half-face hovering above him, blood dripping into his face and mouth that was trying to scream.

Mitchell sat up with a jolt. He was panting, his vision was blurry but he could make out empty pizza-boxes, dog-eared comic books and crumbled t-shirts on the dusty floor. He was in his room, in his bed. He struggled free from the remains of his duvet and swung his legs over the side, his bare feet touched the carpet, his hands held onto the bed's frame. Sweaty strands of hair were plastered on his face, his breath was ragged.

When his door was pushed open with a jolt and a figure burst through, he had trouble to focus.

„What was that? Are you alright? I thought I heard you screa…"

George dropped silent and looked at him.

Mitchell tried harder to focus, to understand, to speak. But his lips moved without a sound. His sweaty hair got into his eyes and he pushed it back, but as soon as he let his chin fall onto his chest it covered his face again. He gripped the bed frame again and slowly let out his breath.

„Mitchell?"

He nodded. That was his name. They would continue to whisper his name whenever it was silent enough for him to hear. All those voices. All those people he had killed.

He pushed himself up and squeezed through the doorframe with the reluctant werewolf still hovering at the threshold.

He stood under shower, palms flat against the cool tiles, until the water pelting on his head and over his shoulders and back had run cold. He washed his scalp and scrubbed his limbs as if he wanted to peel off his skin and tear out his hair. His body was icy cold when he eventually emerged from he shower and he shivered so much he had difficulty to put toothpaste on the brush.

Back in his room he slipped on his jeans, thick socks, a tanktop, a long-sleeve and two t-shirts and zipped up his red and white tracksuit top before putting on his fingerless gloves. Nothing better than those long cuffs over your wrists to keep you warm, man, the shopkeeper had said. Mitchell was still cold.

When he left his room, a delicious scent of coffee and something fried lingered in the flat. He felt his mouth water and went to the living room. The small coffee table in front of the couch was laden with plates full of scrambled eggs, baked beans, sausages and even fried tomatoes. George appeared and handed him a steaming mug.

„Coffee? I can make you some tea if you like but I figured you would be more the coffee-type."

Mitchell blinked slowly.

„Yeah."

„Sit down. I made some breakfast. Toast?"

„Great."

He dropped on the couch and looked at George. He frowned.

„Why are you wearing a dress?"

„It is called an apron. You put those on so that no fat can get on your clothes. Frying sausages can be a nasty business."

Mitchell heard a chuckle escape his throat.

George vanished into the kitchen and came back with glasses full of orange juice. „Your squeezer isn't in top-condition, some kernels may have gotten into the juice."

„I have a squeezer?"

„At the back of your cupboard where the mice have their nest. There are five cute baby-mice! I only moved in this morning and we are parents already!"

Mitchell laughed and spilled coffee on his jeans.

„Oh, man, sorry!"

He waved George's worries off.

„It's fine." Shoving a fork full of eggs and beans into his mouth, he moaned in delight. „Jesus! That is delicious!"

„You don't cook very often, do you?"

„I don't think I ever have."

Yes, I thought so. There were cobwebs in the pots. And I found tinned soup that expired six years ago. I took the liberty to throw it away."

He shrugged. „Not mine. I've been living here for only four years now."

„And before that?"

„Someplace else."

„But where do you come from? You have some accent. Irish?"

„Dublin."

„I have been there three years ago, with my fiancé. Ex-fiancé."

„You split up?"

„She believes me dead. As do my parents."

„But you could have hidden what you are. It's only once a month."

„I turned into a monster! How do you hide something like that?"

„Surprisingly easy."

George looked at him. „Is that what you did? Go back home and pretend everything was normal?"

„No, I didn't. Is there any more coffee?"

George got up and refilled his mug, while Mitchell was devouring toast with jam.

„That is an excellent breakfast, man. Excellent."

„Good." George said, frowning a little when Mitchell licked his plate and his sticky fingers. „You don't have company often, do you?"

He lightened a cigarette and leaned back with eyes closed. „How do you know?"

„Just a thought. Vampires don't strike me as the social type."

„You would be amazed."

He smoked in silence, eyes still closed.

„Are there many?"

Mitchell opened one eye.

„What?"

„Vampires. In Bristol? England? On earth?"

„I believe so."

„Yes, right. Vampires are undead. As in not dying from natural causes. Of course there are many. What about werewolves? Have you met one before?"

„Yeah."

„Really? Where? When? What was he like? Was he even a he? Are there any female werewolves?"

Mitchell stared at George.

„Calm down, mate. I am not the encyclopaedia of supernatural phenomenons. I have met one werewolf back in the fifties and he tried to kill me."

„Oh. So no love between the likes of you and the likes of me, then?"

„No. It has always been… complicated."

He refrained from telling George about the dog-fights that were considered great fun right until the sixties. He had watched from time to time, had even placed some bets in the twenties but had never found those cage-fights as exciting and fun as Herrick. They smelled too much of fear. He had never gone off on fear as his sire and most other vampires he knew.

„You were saying yesterday you were staying off blood? Is that really true? Don't you need it? I mean, that is the whole point of being a vampire, drinking blood, isn't it? What do you do instead? Drink animal blood? Go to a blood bank? Is there a special diet for people like you? Some surrogate stuff?"

Mitchell took a drag on his cigarette. He felt a headache approaching fast.

„George. You make a delicious breakfast. You even seem to be a nice guy. But please stop talking."

„Oh. Right. Sorry."

The werewolf shifted uncomfortably on the stool and then got up to clean away the plates.

Mitchell closed his eyes and put his feet on table.

His phone buzzed. One look revealed that it was a message from Herrick.

„Funeral parlor. 8 o'clock pm."

„Can't. Work."

The phone buzzed again. Another message from his sire.

„Don't fuck with me."

Mitchell cursed and shoved his phone back into his pocket. He had a headache for real now.

At the hospital more of the staff had reported ill, and Mitchell was constantly called to clean up the mess some patients had made. He barely managed to get himself a cigarette-break and wondered how on earth he was going to slip out for his meeting with Herrick.

„Hey, Mitchell. Are you okay?"

He looked up from the broomstick he was cradling his throbbing head against.

„Lauren."

„You look terrible!" Her eyes widened. „No, of course you don't. You always look… Em… Don't you feel well? A lot of people got infected, you know, so maybe…"

„I am fine."

„Sure? I was going to get something to eat, I've been working since six o'clock this morning and now it's almost seven p.m. You want to join me? No, of course not, but can I fetch you something?"

„Seven o'clock?"

She nodded. „I'm doing a double shift. Helen is sick."

„Shit."

„Yes, I believe that's it." She smiled, and despite his headache he couldn't help but notice her cute dimples.

He stowed away his mop in the bucket. „I'll go with you to the cafeteria."

„Really?"

„I've been cleaning away stuff I hadn't known could come out of a human body the whole afternoon. I don't know what's worse, that stench or the disinfectants. I really need a break."

She smiled and resumed walking next to him. „So, um, what do you do when you are not working? Are you…err… seeing someone?"

It was nearly seven o'clock. He needed about 30 minutes to the funeral parlor that was Herrick's head office. Hopefully this talk they were having wouldn't need more than another 30 minutes. He could make it in one and half hours. Would anyone notice his absence? Could he feign illness? No, they would want a sick note, and there was no way of getting that without ending up in a lab where they would be fascinated with his lack of heartbeat and strange metabolism.

„Mitchell?"

„Sorry. What did you say?"

„Nothing." She smiled again, and he smiled back. She was a shy thing, only in town since six months, when he recalled correctly. He dimly remembered her telling him she came from someplace in the country. She was terribly young, insecure, a little too plump to be attractive. But he liked her sparkling blue eyes and her gentle smile and figured she could need a friend. At least someone who was friendly.

So he payed for her meal that consisted of nothing but soda water, black coffee and a salad and sat down in front of her, unwrapping a squishy sandwich and taking a bite.

„Ugh. That is disgusting." He let the sandwich drop and eyed it with contempt. „No wonder everybody around here is sick."

She laughed.

What if he just left now? Would she cover up for him?

„Lauren?"

„Yes?"

„I have a big favour to ask."

„Go ahead."

„I have to be someplace. I sort of accepted the second shift without thinking of my appointment. I cannot cancel that, it is important. You think I could leave for about an hour or so?"

„I could tell anyone who asks that I have just seen you cleaning the upper floor."

„You would?"

„Of course."

Without thinking took her face in his hands and pressed a kiss on her mouth.

„Thank you."

She blinked and smiled, blushing becomingly.

„You are welcome."

He rushed out of the hospital without bothering to change, knowing the cameras would only report empty floors and lift doors opening and closing without anybody to be seen. There were certainly advantages to being a vampire.

„Nice clothes." Herrick smiled and turned his executive chair behind his desk to look at the newcomer from his baggy blue shirt to his white crocks, and Mitchell rolled his eyes.

„What is it you wanted?"

„You, John. I want you. I miss you."

„What?"

Herrick smiled. „Don't you ever think of the old times? How much fun we had? All those young ones, they have no idea what being a vampire is like. The magnificence, the glory!"

„Glory?"

„Yes, John. Glory!" Herrick's smile faded. „And you decided to throw that away. To abandon everything that being a vampire is about. You were special. You were the stuff of legend! And look at you now, what a sorry creature you have become."

In the blink of an eye he was standing close to Mitchell, his breath at his neck, his fingers in a painful grip in his neck. His sire had moved so fast, he didn't stand a chance.

„See?" Herrick purred. „In the old times that would not have happened to you. But now? You are slow. Weak. Are you trembling, Mitchell?"

He managed to free himself from Herrick's grip and closed his fingers around his wrist.

„No."

„When was the last time you fed?"

He shrugged. Too long, he knew.

„You know, you could have someone now."

„No, thank you. What is it you want from me?"

„I don't want anyone getting ideas, John. I need you at the gatherings. You have to show up, and no silly talk about not killing or not feeding on humans, understood?"

„And you will leave me be?"

„Of course I will! Have I ever been other than understanding, John?"

He tossed him a dark glance, but Herrick was all toothy smile.

„I heard you keep a pet?"

„What do you mean?"

„A dog, John, I heard you took one home?"

Christ. Did Herrick know everything that happened in this city?

„Leave him be."

„Of course. Everything you want. I see you Saturday at the gathering then?"

He nodded and turned to leave.

„And John. I expect you to support me."

„Support you?" He frowned.

Herrick's smile grew wider. „You'll see."

Bucket and mop in hand that he had hidden behind a fire door in a dark corner, he slipped through the double doors, slightly out of breath. Despite everything he couldn't help but smile. Technically he didn't even have to breathe. It was a cover that would help to pass as human. But moreover it was a habit he never dropped, not even in his sleep. Mostly. He remembered Josie jerking him violently awake, with trembling hands and wide-open eyes. Her voice had been a pitch too high, when her hands explored his face and stroke his hair, you stopped breathing, oh my God Mitchell, I thought you died!

It didn't really help when he told her that in fact he had died, 52 years ago on a battlefield in a foreign country, in a war he didn't understand, killed by someone – something – he didn't understand. That he had been dead and buried in a crumpled heap of bloody bodies and torn-out guts and severed limbs that had been his comrades. It's not funny, Mitchell, I was scared! No, it wasn't funny, not then, not ever.

He didn't tell her of the terror he had felt, the pain. And the hunger. That terrible, consuming hunger. The aroma of blood all around. He didn't tell her how he crawled out under the dead only to turn and savour the blood still oozing from their wounds. How it had tasted like the most delicious thing ever, before his stomach revolted and he threw up. He had felt the hand on his back, heard the voice that had frightened him so much before and now sounded nothing but reassuring. No, no, my dear boy, you don't want to drink that. It is dead. You want to taste something alive, you need to feed on the real thing now. Yes, I know, you are hungry. Come with me, soldier, follow me. And he had. He had followed Herrick for decades. Until he met Josie.

She knew of course. She knew what he was, knew what he had done. Not everything, and some things he would never ever tell her, but she knew enough. She knew he was a monster. But she also knew that he repented. Wished for a life without all that killing and pain. To be free from Herrick. She had helped him through the withdrawal that had lasted weeks and had been worse than he had ever imagined. She helped him stay away from Herrick. She helped him come back every time the vampire surfaced with black eyes, sharp fangs, anger and hunger, she would hold his face and talk to him until he came round again. He owed her everything and would have been content just to do the washing up and taking out the bin. But she had taken him into her bed and into her heart and Christ he had never been happier in his whole life and never been more in love.

So he comforted her, rolled a joint they were smoking in silence and smiled when she lay down with her head on his chest to feel him breathe, her fingers weaving through his soft, dark hair, her ear pressed against his flesh to listen to the echo of the faintest heartbeat. She had always been so delighted when she could hear his undead heart beat, that sometimes would come into life and flutter against his ribs when she touched him. See, you are more human than you thought. With you, I am.

„Thank God, Mitchell! You are back!"

He looked up at a flustered Lauren.

„Doctor Simmons has been asking for you. Apparently someone had made quite a mess in the doctor's bathrooms. I managed to distract him, but he has been asking for you three times now and he is getting angrier by the minute! You said you would only be gone an hour or so but it has been over two hours now!"

„Shit. I am so sorry! I should not have asked that of you. Thank you, really!" He sighed. „Where is that bloody asshole of a doctor?"

„Mr. Mitchell. At last. Where you asking for me?"

He gritted his teeth and turned round to meet Doctor Simmons, whose personal delight it had become to torture him.

„If you would stop flirting with the staff maybe you would get some work done. Accepting a double shift is not about taking the double money and hanging around the nurses, you know. It is about working, Mr. all have our duties according to our qualifications, and you, it seems, are exactly the right person for wiping up excrements. And I think you should do that now and maybe stay a little longer to make up for all those cigarette breaks and other leisure time you had."

„You are really enjoying yourself now, aren't you? Do you really lead such a sorry life that you have to go off on bashing a cleaner?"

The man's face turned an angry red and the vein at his neck began throbbing. Mitchell swallowed, fighting the temptation to just sink his fangs in that rope-like vein, tear it open and let the man's blood rain down on him. He licked his lips, that were suddenly dry. He would enjoy this, he thought. Slice him open, make him bleed, suck the very life out of that bugger. Make him whine and cringe and shit in his pants and who the fuck did care if anyone would bother to clean that up?

Simmons took a step back, suddenly paling, and Mitchell blinked. Had his eyes changed?

He took the bucket and mop and squeezed past Simmons and Lauren, making sure he bumped into the man and made him stagger back.

„Sorry. You want me in detention for that as well?"

„I am going to report you, Mr. Mitchell."

He stopped and turned. „By all means. Fire me. I am sure a dozen cleaners are just waiting to step in. That is probably the reason I was asked to work another double shift tomorrow."

A sixpack in hand he opened the door and wondered briefly if he was in the wrong flat. Everything looked so…clean.

„George?"

„Oh, hi! You are just in time! I didn't know when you would be back so I made a shepherd's pie that you could heat up in the microwave. And it just came out of the oven!"

Mitchell followed George into the kitchen and tried to squeeze the cans of beer into the refrigerator that was crammed with all types of food. Gratefully he noticed that George had thought about buying some beer as well and opened two cool bottles on the counter with a single hit that spoke of years of practise. He took a deep gulp, leaned closer to the wall and examined the tiles.

„These are not brown?"

„That was grime."

„Ah."

He looked at the washing basin, now free from mouldy mugs, accepted the two plates George put into his hand and ventured into the sitting room.

„What happened here?"

„I tidied up."

„Where are my comic books? The newspapers? Where are the cushions?"

„Your comics are stacked up in the corner. The cushions were not only smelly, they were rotting. I threw them away. Together with the papers. Who keeps newspapers that are twenty years old?"

„I did. Obviously."

„Why?"

„Because…" Because he kept the reports on his victims like a sick mass murderer. Which he was. Christ.

„You are right. No one should keep rubbish like that. Thank you for throwing that away." „We should go to Ikea some time soon, buy new cushions and a bookshelf for your comics. And the bathroom wants a mirror."

„I don't need a mirror. And what do you mean, we?"

„You have to pick what you like. I pay because you let me stay. And I do need a mirror to shave." George put a slice of pie on Mitchell's plate. „How was your day?"

The fork that was half-way to his mouth, laden with delicious smelling shepherd's pie stopped in mid-air.

„George. Thank you for everything you've done here today, but I must tell you I am not gay and I am not looking for a boyfriend."

„Neither am I! How… How on earth could you think that?"

George's voice was pitch-high, his mouth stood open in indignation, his jug ears turned pink.

„I don't know, George. I just don't know." Mitchell felt his mouth curl into a smile as he looked the werewolf up and down, who was still wearing his flowery apron with quillings.

George harrumphed and took the apron off.

„One can be a very manly heterosexual and still wear an apron. Besides, it was the only one they had at Woolworth's apart from the one with the naked women's breasts."

„I would have preferred that one."

George harrumphed again.


	3. Chapter 3

„Well." George said, looking from the toilet seat to the kitchen sink. „I suppose it has its advantages. If you suffer from a gastrointestinal infection, you could cook some porridge and chamomile tea without ever leaving the loo."

„You are taking it then?"

„No!" Mitchell said. „He is most definitely not!"

George frowned. „Shouldn't that be my decision?"

„You are not going to rent that pit."

„It is not as if I had may flat-offers. It is… err… I suppose with a little paint…"

„No." Mitchell said again. „No way."

„I can't sleep on your couch forever."

„Of course you can't. I miss my telly! And you make that sick… thing. Those movements."

The estate agent cast George an interested look, and he rolled his eyes.

„Yoga. It is called yoga, Mitchell."

„You make sounds."

„I am singing a mantra."

„It's getting on my nerves."

„You are smoking in the flat."

„It is my bloody flat! I can smoke everywhere I like!"

„It stinks. Talking of which. I am tired of you never cleaning the bathroom."

„I am not even using the bathroom!"

George burst out laughing.

„Much. I am not using the bathroom much. Not blocking it for hours like you, trying different ways to brush my hair in front of the mirror."

„Only because you have no…" George stopped.

„I am sorry to interrupt your lover's quarrel, but are you going to take the flat or no?"

„No!" Mitchell glared at his friend.

George sighed. „No, I am not. Thank you for being so kind as to show us around."

The woman nodded.

„You know, if you would be interested in something completely different, a house, I may have just the thing for you."

„A house?" George echoed.

„Three bedrooms, a kitchen, a sitting-room, a bathroom, an attic. A lot of space for your yoga, Mr. Sands."

„Thank you, but I don't think I could afford that."

„I thought, you and your… friend… would like some more space? We have rented to the likes of you before."

„I don't think you have." Mitchell muttered.

„We are in no way prejudiced. Best tenants we have had so far, calm, a perfect sense for interior design, nice people, really. And the house I have in mind, you would be surprised, the rent is quite cheap. The owner just wants someone fitting for his house. And he wants it off the market quickly. You want to have a look? It is in Totterdown, a nice and quiet area. A lot of families live there. I have got the keys on me, we could go now."

„Mitchell?" George looked at him with puppy dogs.

He shrugged. „You would make a fine ghost in the attic, with your weird mantra-singing."

„Ghost? Haha. You have funny ideas, Mr. Mitchell." The woman laughed nervously. She scribbled something on a sheet of paper and handed it to George.

„That is the address. Shall we meet there in… let's say… half an hour?"

„Fine."

„It is pink." Mitchell lowered his sunglasses to look at the offensive house. It sat at the corner of the street, plaster fell off the walls and the weathered windows looked empty. No, wait. There was someone moving on the upper floor. The estate agent was obviously desperate to rent that thing if they were showing it to two parties at the same time.

„So?"

„Pink. George. Pink!"

„Your point being?"

Mitchell sighed and followed George to the house. The door stood ajar, and George eagerly stepped in, craning his neck.

„Look, how lovely! The tiles are black and white. That is so nostalgic! And a wooden floor in the sitting room!"

He vanished round the corner. Mitchell sighed again.

It took the length of a cigarette until George reappeared.

„Where are you? I thought you wanted to see the house!"

„I cannot enter. I have to be invited in."

„Oh." George stepped back. „I didn't know that. Well then, I invite you in."

„By the ownership."

„Oh." George said again.

„There you are." The estate agent came to meet them. „Lovely neighbourhood, isn't it?"

She disappeared into the house again, and Mitchell rolled his eyes at George.

„Make her invite me in!"

„How?"

„You have an IQ of 156. I am sure you can think of something!"

George cursed under his breath and made to follow the woman, telling her something of Mitchell being old-fashioned until she asked him in. As soon as Mitchell had entered and followed the estate agent into the living room, George vanished again.

Mitchell looked around. There was a shabby leather sofa, a red chair, an elderly lamp and a bench with green cushions that reminded him of a hotel room in Wales he had rented in 1957. He hadn't liked it at all. Luckily there had been a lot of distractions.

„It comes furnished."

„I see."

„The wallpaper is retro."

„No, it's not. It is just decades old."

„I suppose we could talk to the owner and see if he would be willing to think his financial expectations over. I am fed up with showing this place to people who are not going to rent it."

„Why haven't you found anyone yet?"

She shrugged. „You will find out anyway, so I can as well tell you. The owner's fiancée died here. Fell down the stairs and broke her neck. See the cracked tile? That was where she hit the floor and broke her skull. People get superstitious once they hear something like that. Some even thought the house was haunted!"

„Haunted?"

„Noises in empty rooms, things like that. Stupid, really."

He looked around again. Haunted, huh? By rubbish, probably.

„Are you still interested? Or shall we just leave?"

„I don't know. Totterdown isn't really my first choice for a place to live. And that house is not in good shape."

„Have you seen the kitchen? It is gorgeous!" George came sliding into the living room, his cheeks flushed and his eyes sparkling. „Have you been upstairs? There a three bed-rooms! And the curtains, Mitchell, the curtains!"

„So you are interested? You take it?"

„Yes!" George cried and flung his arms around Mitchell. „Please?"

„Err. George?"

The werewolf boxed him in the ribs and laughed. „That place is perfect, don't you see?"

„No. I don't."

„Because you haven't even looked at it. Come, I'll show you the kitchen. Look at he stove! And the shelves with all those mugs, lovely!"

„You have seen the cracked tile, George?"

„Come on! It's an old house. I don't mind at all!"

„If you would want to sign the contract today, I am sure I could persuade the owner to lower the rent a little."

The estate agent smiled and held out a pen.

Mitchell shrugged, took the pen and signed the contract. Hell. Why not? He had lived with several people over the years, and some of them had been worse than any werewolf ever could turn out to be.

It was ridiculously early in the morning, and Mitchell, still half asleep, struggled with the kettle and coffee. God, he missed Italy. Delicious coffee at every day- or night-time, delicious food and delicious blood. He licked his lips at the memory and jerked back when he poured boiling water over his fingers.

„Ow! Fuck!"

He rushed to the tap and put his burnt hand under the cold water, but the plumbing was now jostling into life and creaked and ached.

George would wake up and complain. The plumbing drove George crazy, but all the other strange noises in the house didn't help either in calming the werewolf down. Moreover he had started accusing Mitchell of playing pranks on him. Disorganising the alphabetical order of his books, putting a red tank top in his white laundry so that he ended up having to wear pink boxers and singlets. Mitchell hadn't done anything he was accused of but loved every single deed. At least until George had had his revenge and had mixed Mitchell's styling gel with his tooth paste and switched covers of all his CD's and DVDs.

Mitchell cursed again and inspected his injured fingers that were hurting like hell. Vampire skin was more sensitive to burns, and his fingers had turned an angry red with his skin already blistering. Normally that wouldn't be a problem. He would just feed on blood and would have healed. But now it would take weeks at least. His body could not produce blood of its own, it had difficulty healing wounds and regenerating tissue.

He searched through the first aid kit until he found a salve to put on the injury and a bandage that he wrapped around his hand. The sudden feeling of being watched made his hairs stand on end and he turned, half expecting to see George. But the kitchen was empty. He frowned, not sure wether he heard something on the stairs, but no, that was an old house and a wooden staircase. The talk about living in a haunted house was eventually getting to him, he reckoned. He wasn't afraid of ghosts, although he had met terrifying ones that sent a chill down his spine and made his heart jump as if it wanted to flee his body. Those had been the ghosts of people he had killed, hissing and spitting and cursing him. But that hadn't happened too often, and he was grateful for it. Mostly ghosts were just confused afterimages that went into the light as soon as their door opened. Gilbert was an exception, of course. But Gilbert always had been a little different.

Downing his still hot coffee, Mitchell put on his coat, pocketed his sunglasses and keys and left for his nightshift.

He just had started mopping the floor when Lauren was taking a patient in a wheelchair to the lift. He hadn't seen her in a while.

„Lauren!"

She briefly looked up and squeezed the wheelchair into the already crammed lift.

Was she avoiding him? Damn. Doctor Simmons must have given her a hard time after she had covered up Mitchell's absence some weeks ago. He had to apologise.

He thought of the meeting at the funeral parlour, and Herrick's sick idea of taking over Bristol. England. The world? Of a vampire reign. Surely the Old Ones would put an end to that. Mitchell had met one of them some time ago, when he was roaming Paris like an all-consuming force of nature, like a nightmare come true, he had enjoyed himself far too much, hadn't cared about covering up his killings, had felt like the mightiest being – until he had met Wyndam. He hadn't understood at first, what a powerful creature he was facing, had laughed in his face. Christ, have you got any idea who you are trying to stop? I am Big Bad John Mitchell, man! Wyndam had him down on the cobblestones in a second, a heavy foot on his back, his face in the dirt, his body hurting and not able to move, and when the slender man had lifted his foot it had been only to hurl Mitchell against the next wall that his skull had banged against with a sickening crack. Wyndam had beaten manners into him and the sheer fright of ever overstepping boundaries again. The Old One had enjoyed that, he was a sick, cruel bastard that he wished he would never ever have to meet again in his whole life. But now he almost hoped, it would be Wyndam putting an end to Herrick's plans.

When it was time for a break he sneaked into the nurses supply to dress his fingers again, only to find Lauren sitting on a chair and checking her phone.

She jumped when he entered and stared at him.

„Were you following me?"

„Were you avoiding me?"

„Yes, I was." She sighed. „I just didn't know how to do it. But I have to otherwise the others will never stop pestering me."

„Do what?"

„Never mind. Have you hurt your hand?"

He nodded. „Stupid. Spilled boiling water over my fingers. No big deal."

„Let me have a look."

Carefully she unwrapped his bandage, and he hissed when the skin peeled off and revealed his vulnerable flesh.

„That is quite a burn, Mitchell. You should see a doctor."

„No. It's not that bad."

She frowned but tended to the wound.

He forced himself not to stare at the vein at her neck just below the tips of her luscious brown hair. He had always had a thing for brunettes. Her skin was fair, and he could see her heartbeat throbbing in that vein. He longed to feel that pulsating sensation under his tongue.

Stop that, Mitchell.

He lifted his gaze. She had a stubby nose and full lips, her lashes were long and as she looked up at him now, smiling, her dimples were showing.

„Finished."

„Thank…" He had to clear his throat. „…you." Her scent was in his nose, the tempting scent of warm skin, the promise of blood, the smell of flowery perfume and sharp disinfectant. She smelled gorgeous.

„Would you like to go out with me?" He blurted out.

Her eyes widened. „What?"

„A drink. As a thank you and an apology. A date…?" His voice trailed off. She didn't seem overly enthusiastic about it. Damn. It hadn't been a good idea in the first place.

„Sorry. I didn't mean to…"

„A date? Really?"

He nodded.

She looked at him, blushing slightly. „I would love to. I was wondering how on earth I could get a date with you. All my colleagues were teasing me about that. How I was ogling you and tiptoeing around you and didn't have the nerve to ask you. And now you… Are you sure?"

He chuckled. „Positive. I have thought about asking you out before but I didn't have the nerve."

„You are the most handsome male in the hospital, patients included. Why would you lack the courage?"

„It is complicated. I am not… exactly a … catch."

„You like to wear women's clothes? Expose yourself in front of elderly ladies in the park? Take nude pictures of your girlfriend and put them on the internet?"

„No! Christ, no!"

„Good! Had all that, don't need it again."

„Jesus."

She smiled. „I have two more nightshifts and then two days off. How about you?"

„Same. I pick you up at your place. Eight o'clock on your first day off."

„That sounds perfect."

He moved a little closer until her scent completely filled his head and his heart sprung into life and started beating in expectation. She raised her chin so that his lips would meet hers in a kiss, and it was all warm and sweet. When his lids reluctantly opened again he looked into her bright blue eyes and couldn't help but kiss her again, gently tracing her lips with his tongue asking entrance, playing with hers and teasing until the kiss became more passionate. He felt something awaken but it was not the monster. It was simple longing.

They broke apart, blushing a little, and parted with the promise to meet in the cafeteria later. Mitchell felt ridiculously happy the whole day.

Lauren was sweet. They would have dinner, drinks, hopefully sex. Maybe he would fall in love. He would like that, it had been too long. Living with George and listening to his whining about his lost fiancée made him think a lot about love. Josie had been the last woman he really was in love with. He had dated since then, he had had sex without drawing blood, just plain and sometimes really good sex, but he had not been in love, not like that.

You will not be alone, she had promised him, when he was all teary and clinging onto her like a lifeline, begging her not to leave him, no, Josie, please, don't do this to me, I need you, I love you. You will find love again, my heart. A love far bigger than this. Trust me.

He would have to tell Lauren what he was. But not at once. Have a nice evening first, make love to her first. Be human first, then tell her about the monster.

He went home, sunglasses sitting in his hair, a take-away coffee in his hand, and he still felt good. Warm. Alive. Funny really, how blood and love had a similar effect. Only one was far easier to get than the other.

He pushed open the door of the pink house, humming a Doors song, when his eyes fell on George standing in the hall, his arms folded, his expression dark.

„Mitchell." He positively growled.

„Yeah?"

„That is so not funny. I am sick of your sick jokes!"

„What?"

„The chicken! You don't do something like this to my chicken. I need a chicken on the full moon to lay a trace, so that I won't rush off and kill something. Or someone. Do you understand that?"

„Of course I do, George. It never touched your bloody chicken. What is the matter with you?"

„The matter?" George's voice was painfully shrill. He grabbed Mitchell's sleeve and dragged him into the kitchen.

The chicken was nailed against the cupboard like a fat and headless Jesus.

„Bloody hell." Mitchell nearly dropped his coffee. „I didn't do that. How could you ever think I would do anything like that?"

„I… I don't know. Sorry." George looked at him with panic rising in his eyes. „Who did that? Do you think the neighbours are trying to scare us off? Do you think someone knows what we are?"

„I don't think so. They would have tried to kill us and not the chicken."

„But… who?"

„Haven't the faintest."

„What was that?" George spun around. „Did you hear that?"

„Someone is in the house!"

He raced out of the kitchen, just to stop dead in his tracks.

„Go away" was written on the wall.

„Oh my God!" George paled. „Is that blood?"

„That is paint. And still fresh." Mitchell cast his friend a look. „Blood! Seriously, George! Why would anyone write anything in blood, it's totally impractical. Not to mention a waste."

„Sorry."

„Upstairs." Mitchell breathed. „They are upstairs. Go!" He shoved a reluctant George towards the stairs.

„Why should I go first?"

„Because I have hurt myself already today, I don't need another injury. You are more impressive than me anyway. You are stocky!"

„Stocky? I am not stocky!"

„Yes, you are. You are like those people in the comics, when a safe falls down and…"

George harrumphed and grabbed a cricket bat. Arming himself with an umbrella (an umbrella, idiot, who was he going to scare off with an umbrella other than a rain cloud), Mitchell followed in his wake. George burst into the room the noise had been coming from and stopped dead. A young woman was sitting in the lone armchair. She didn't look too alarmed as the two of them were crashing into the room, she inspected her fingernails and sighed.

„Who are you? What are doing in our house? What have you done to my chicken?"

The woman turned to look at someone behind her and when she found the room empty, she looked back at George. Her brown eyes widened.

„You can see me? You can actually see me?"

„Yes, of course I can see you! Who are you?"

She waved her arms. „Can you see me doing this?"

George readied his cricket bat in defence. „Stop that!"

„George." Mitchell felt a tingling sensation, like electricity, making his hairs stand on end.

„What are you doing in our house?"

„Your house?" The woman exclaimed indignantly. „That is my house, and you must leave!"

„George."

„Leave? Are you out of your mind? I signed a contract. I payed a deposit. You leave or I will call the police!"

„George. It is her house."

„What do you mean, it is her house?"

„She is a ghost."

„So what?" The woman glared at him. „You have a problem with that?"

„Yes, I do." George said, faintly.

„No, I don't."

How could he? She was young and lovely and beautiful, with skin the colour of coffee latte and eyes deep and dark, curls were dancing around her delicate face now as she shook her head. She was one of the most lively persons he had seen – apart from the fact that she was dead.

„How can you see me? Nobody has ever been able to see me before."

He took a step forward and carefully extended his hand to shake hers. He had seen ghosts who were like mist and ghosts who were solid enough to touch but she looked like an actual woman hadn't it been for the faint glow around her and the buzz of electricity he felt emanating from her. He wondered what it would do to him but held out his hand nevertheless.

Reluctantly she took it, and he was surprised to feel her cold skin and the solid grip of her fingers and a mild sensation at her touch that was not unpleasant at all.

Her eyes widened. „I can touch you. I felt your touch!"

He grinned. „I am Mitchell, that is George."

„Um. Nice to meet you?"

„Nice to meet you too. What's your name?"

„Annie." She tilted her head, and his grin widened. She was cute.

„You are not afraid of me. And you are not… human. What are you?"

„Vampire. George here is a werewolf. That's why we can see you."

„You are a vampire?" She stared at him, clearly wondering wether he was making fun of her. She made a face, baring her teeth. „Like that? Like count Dracula?"

„Err. Something like that."

„And you are a werewolf? Really?"

George sighed. „Yes. Really. What now? Do you leave or what?"

„No!" Mitchell and Annie said unisono.

„It is her house. She can't leave. It is what keeps her here, what ties her to the world of the living. She has a bond with the house. She died here."

„What? Someone died in our house?"

„I died in my house!"

„You didn't know?"

„You did? You never said anything!"

„Where do think did the cracked tile comes from?"

„Ugh." Gorge made a face.

„I thought you knew. Everybody knows! People are asking me on he street about it!"

„The neighbours are talking to you?"

„Of course they are! We are talking, that's what neighbours do. I invited them for a housewarming next Saturday!"

„You did what?"

„Hello? Am I invisible again? Could you talk to me? And what do you mean, you invited the neighbours?"

„It is what one does, Annie, being new in the neighbourhood."

„I know… what was your name again?"

„Mitchell."

„Mitchell. I know that, I wanted to invite them over, as soon as Owen and me moved here, but I died before I could do it."

„But this is great! It will be your housewarming party, too!"

„I wanted to do this with Owen!"

„Who is Owen? George rolled his eyes.

„My fiancé." She sniffed.

„Our landlord."

„You have met him? How was he faring? Oh, my poor darling! I bet he was heartbroken! We wanted to marry, have a family." The tears were flowing for real now, and George shifted uncomfortably.

„How about a cup of tea?" He asked, and Annie turned, her dark eyes sparkling.

„I am a ghost! I cannot drink tea!"

With that, she vanished.

„Sorry." George muttered.

„Really!" Mitchell huffed. „You should be more sensitive!"

„I didn't know that! How on earth was I supposed to know?"

„Calm down. Have a tea and get used to the idea of a ghost living in our house."

„No way!"

Mitchell smiled when they entered the kitchen.

„She's here."

„Yes." Annie said, handing two steaming mugs over. „Of corse I am here. I cannot leave the house. And it is my kitchen, after all. I cannot drink tea, but I like making it. So enjoy."

He took a sip. „Wow. This is good."

„Thank you." She smiled very girlish, and he felt his grin widen.

„So. What now?" George asked.

„We are drinking tea like proper house mates and get to know each other."

„No!" George said aghast. „We are not house mates!"

„Yes, we are. She cannot go anywhere else, she will probably just fade. Besides, it will do us good living with a lovely woman."

„She crucified my chicken!"

„Sorry about that." She murmured. „I put it back in the fridge."

„See? All is well, no harm done!" Mitchell grinned and turned to a still guilty looking Annie. „How long did you live here before… you know. How did that happen anyway?"

„We just moved in. I must have tripped in the dark and fell down the stairs. I can't really remember. I hit my head very bad, after all." She pursed her lips. „I have been here since then. Nobody could see me. It was horrible, I was so alone all the time."

„No longer." Mitchell put a reassuring hand on her forearm, and felt the tickling sensation again.

She stared at her arm. „It is so strange that you can actually touch me. It tickles."

„Yeah! It does! I didn't know it could feel that way."

„Have you met other ghosts? Actually touched them?"

„Mostly there is nothing to touch, most of them are not solid like you."

„I am solid!" She bumped up and down in her chair, and George touched his forehand.

„I am getting a headache."

„What is it with you?" Annie asked. „Is it your time of the month or what?"

Mitchell chuckled. „Actually, it is. There is a full moon in three days." Oh, damn. Three days. He had forgotten about George when he asked Lauren out. „Fuck, man. I have a thing!"

George stared. „You. Have. A. Thing?"

„Sorry, mate! I forgot. But I take you to the woods, I promise. And I will try to pick you up in the morning."

„What do you mean you will _try_?"

„Um. I don't know how long that _thing_ will take, so… I am not sure I will make it in time."

„Don't bother. I've handled this on my own before."

„I know. But that's the thing about having friends. You don't have to do things like that on your own. Forget about what I said. I will be there. I promise."

George looked at him, his eyes behind his glasses suspiciously moist. They embraced, and Annie clapped her hands in delight.

Mitchell put on his Crocks and left the changing room only to be grabbed and dragged into a dim lit corner. An arm was slung round his neck and lips were pressed on his in a passionate kiss.

„Lauren!" He tried to catch his breath. The girl was a hell of a kisser. If that was any indication of more hidden talents, he was in for a treat tomorrow.

„Just something to make your shift more agreeable."

„If it gets any more agreeable I won't be able to work at all."

She giggled and pressed her lips onto his again.

„See you later, tiger."

„Yeah."

„Oh. And, Mitchell, let doctor Simmons look at your hand, please. It doesn't heal properly, I am worried."

„It is fine, really. I don't need that prick."

„It is not fine. At least let me dress it."

„Okay. See you in the supply room at midnight then? Alone?"

She grinned and waved him goodbye.


	4. Chapter 4

„Hey, Mitchell, come in! I am not ready yet, sorry!" Lauren cast him an apologetic look and opened the door a little wider.

He waved the bottle of red wine. „Brought you something."

„Great. Open it, we can have a drink before we leave. Kitchen is to your right!"

He opened the bottle and poured two glasses.

„Are you living alone?"

„I share with a friend, but she is visiting her parents. We have the whole flat to our own tonight!"

He chuckled and peeped round the doorframe. „Some wine?"

„Cheers." She chinked glasses and smiled. „I can't believe this is really happening. You and me, on a date."

„I know." He took a sip of wine and made a face. „Oh. God. This is terrible!"

She laughed and put their glasses away, kissing him and dragging him into her room. He felt her fingers unbutton his shirt and shoving it over his shoulders.

Hell, why not? That was why he asked her out, wasn't it?

Between hungry kisses he managed to get her out of her blouse and pulled his tanktop over his head, only to feel her push him onto the bed. She climbed the bed, straddling him and got rid her of shirt, before she bent down and kissed him hard, her hands pinning him onto the mattress. With a skilled grasp he opened her bra and she shrugged out of it, rubbing her hard nipples against his chest, her mouth exploring the delicate skin of his neck, her hands unfastening his belt. As soon as he got rid of his pants, he rolled her over, touching and tasting the skin of her breasts, her belly, her thighs. Her hands were grabbing his buttocks, his arms, his hair; she opened her legs in invitation, her breath was becoming more and more ragged, she was begging him and moaning with pleasure when he pushed into her. Oh, Christ, this was good.

She turned him over to ride him, he arched his hips and reached up to massage her breasts, and she threw back her head, her throat exposed and inviting, her movements becoming faster and more forceful. Oh, yes. Keep doing this. Oh God. The pleasure was building up like a fire, the flames licking at his insides, waves of heat were running through him, crashing against the rampart inside of him. While his brain was struggling to keep control, his body gave in to the sensation, the lust, the yearning. His hands held her as he sat up and let her glide into his lap to take him in once more, her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, he rocked her, smelled her scent, tasted her soft and sweaty skin, felt her breasts against his chest, felt her fingernails scratch his back, heard her moan into his ear, her breath hot and damp, her lips were caressing his neck, her tongue was licking his skin, her teeth were nibbling his flesh, gently biting and sucking as he was moving faster, and she was pushing down on him in a forceful rhythm. Oh God. Oh, yes. Yes. Now. He felt it coming, hot, overwhelming, felt it explode behind his eyeballs, felt it brake through, felt his heart race suddenly, felt his fingers curl into her hair. He heard himself cry out the same time she was groaning loud and her fingers clawed at his skin, her body tensed, and he held her closer, his face buried in her sweaty hair, his tongue licked her neck, he tasted her, took her in, all of her, oh Jesus, that was good, let it never stop. He felt her twitch and shiver, heard her let out a long, loud sigh and allowed his trembling body to go limp against hers. Oh, God, that had been wonderful. The sheer taste of it. He opened his eyes, detached his lips from her neck, the taste of blood still on his tongue. Two puncture wounds were gaping in her neck, a thin line of blood was gently flowing over her collarbone. Oh, no. No. Oh God, please, no.

His fingers came up to her neck to feel her pulse. It was barely perceptible but still there, she was not dead. But her skin was ashen, her breathing faint, her eyes couldn't focus. She was unconscious, on the verge of death. He had seen that before, done that before.

„Oh Christ, Lauren. I am sorry, I'm so sorry." He was mumbling frantically, his shaking fingers were striking her face, his mind was racing. He never meant to do that. He hadn't even realised he had been biting her. Fuck. He should have fed before. Weeks before, days before. He had felt it coming, he had known he wouldn't last much longer. He needed blood, so desperately, fucking idiot, who had he thought he could fool? Herrick had sensed it, had told him, but he wouldn't listen, he wouldn't feed. And now this. _This._ He should have stayed away from her. He should have been able to keep control.

A soft moan made him look at her, as she shivered and draw a desperate breath and went painfully still. Oh no. She didn't deserve this. She far was too young to die.

Without thinking he tore open his wrist with his fangs and let the blood drip onto her lips. She didn't move. The drops of his precious blood simply rolled down her cheek into the sheets. „Come on. Drink!"

He had never done that before, Herrick had always been the one to turn new ones. Mitchell wasn't sure how it worked. She had to drink his blood, so much he knew, but he had not the faintest idea how much she needed to come back from the dead. He pressed his bleeding wrist against Lauren's slightly open lips, making sure his blood dropped into her mouth. But nothing happened, he never felt her react, never felt her tongue touch his skin. She didn't swallow, she didn't drink, her heart didn't start beating again, her lungs didn't draw breath, and her body remained still. She was gone.

He crawled out of the bed and mechanically put on his pants and jeans, fully determined to do what had to be done now. Clean the flat from every evidence he had ever set a foot in it. Wipe away fingerprints, saliva, sperm – he hadn't even used the condoms he had bought. Not that he needed them, but women these days were all about safer sex. Safer sex. With a vampire. In the old days he would have thought that hilariously funny.

He looked at the still form of Lauren, naked, bloody, eyes still open and broken, and he felt sick. His legs gave way and he dropped down next to the bed, painfully aware of her dead eyes at his back. He had to call Herrick. But he couldn't move. He just could sit and avoid to look at her and hate what he had done, hate himself. Despise himself.

How long he had been like this he didn't know. Dawn was breaking, when he eventually got up, slowly, and forced himself to look at her, to look at what he had done. Gently he closed her eyes, got fully dressed, took the glasses into the kitchen and rinsed them. He washed her blood from his face and his hands, then wiped the tap, the counter, the doorknob, even the bell to get rid off his fingerprints in her flat until only her body remained. He looked at her, and he knew he couldn't do it.

Slowly, he pulled out his phone from his pocket and dialled Herrick's number.

When he closed the door behind him and walked out on the street, it was early morning. A police siren was blaring and getting closer, and he turned his back and walked home, rolling a cigarette. The bandage was still wrapped around his left hand that was itching now. He put the cigarette between his lips and lightened it, inhaling the smoke and started to unwrap the bandage. His fingers were no longer an angry red, the oozing injury was gone, the raw flesh covered in new skin.

At Totterdown he didn't even stop for a coffee knowing it would come with a lively and excruciating cheerful ghost and he couldn't bare the thought of it, so he just got into his Volvo and drove out of town to wait for George.

„Nice one."

The text Herrick sent was still on his mobile and he read it again, feeling sick again. Nice one. A dead woman in a flat. A nurse, a young and pretty girl. A nice one. He had liked her. Wanted this to be… what? Love? Real? Human? Good? Damn, it had been good. He still tasted her blood on his tongue and as much as he hated himself for doing that to her, as much he loved that taste, that feeling. She made him feel alive.

He sighed and got out of bed. There was no way he would get any sleep tonight. He felt slightly high and he felt like shit at the same time. The image of Lauren's broken body never left his head, the stolen blood was still rushing through his veins, his heart was still dancing with the joy of pumping it through his body.

In sweatpants and a longsleeve he went down into the sitting room, thankful that his thick socks didn't make a sound on the creaky stairs. George was always more aware of his surroundings around a full moon, his hearing, eyesight and sense of smell were improved, and Mitchell wasn't sure the werewolf wouldn't probably sense that he was full of someone else's blood. He rummaged through the cupboards in the kitchen looking for cookies and put the kettle on for some tea. He let a bag drop into a mug, and staggered back with a small cry, putting a hand on his jolting heart, when a hand suddenly gripped the kettle out of thin air.

„Jesus! Annie! You want me to get a heart attack?"

„Sorry. Could you?"

„Definitely feels like it." He bent over to catch his breath. „How did you do that?"

„What? That?" She disappeared and rent-a-ghosted behind him.

He gasped. „Yes! That! I didn't know you could. It is… cool. I think. Once I get used to it."

„I couldn't before. But since yesterday I am able to appear everywhere I want to!"

„Everywhere?"

„Inside the house."

„Did you try it outside?"

„No."

„You should, you know. You should go out."

„And do what?"

„I don't know. Whatever you like."

„You think I could visit Owen?"

„Err. No. That wouldn't be a good idea. You are dead."

„So are you. In a way."

„And I never turned up in front of my family or anyone who believed me dead."

She looked at him, in her own intense way, that made him feel as if she could see right into his soul if he had one, and he shifted uncomfortably.

„What?"

„Oh. Sorry. I just… It is strange to think you had a family."

„Of course I had. My mum."

„What was she like?"

„Warm." He grinned. „That is what I remember, how warm her embrace felt. I remember her being gentle and fragile. I don't really remember what she looked like. All I remember is, she had red hair and she always looked tired."

„And your dad?"

He shrugged. „Dunno. Never met him."

„So you were all she had?"

„That's why she didn't want me to join the army. I volunteered. I believed those recruiting parties, I really thought there was glory waiting for me. Of course there wasn't. I was an Irishman in the British army, and English officers were bossing me around when the Germans weren't shooting at me."

„It must have broken her heart when you didn't come back from war."

„Yes."

She flung her arms around him all of a sudden, and he felt a light buzz when her body pressed against his.

„I am sorry, Mitchell. I am a selfish cow."

He chuckled. „Annie, you are not. It's been over ninety years ago. My mother is long dead. It's alright."

„Okay." She said in a small voice. „Do you want some tea?"

„Yes, please."

He watched her prepare his tea with her dark locks falling into her face and heard her sniff.

„What is it?"

„Your mum. My mum. Owen. We will never see them again. We no longer belong with them."

„No, we don't. But we are not alone, George and you and me. We have each other now."

She looked up and a faint smile blossomed on her face. „Thank you."

Then she started to giggle. „You know, you could be my grandfather."

He grinned and put an arm around her shoulder. „Wanna watch some telly with an old man? I can't sleep, and I know you don't sleep."

When she snuggled against him on the couch, it was strange to feel her cool and tickling skin and not being able to hear her heartbeat or smell her blood. She was real enough, even a little heavy on his chest, but there was none of the temptations he usually had to fight when embracing a living person. He liked to have her close, to bury his head in her dark curls and close his eyes and feel at ease. It was strangely comforting to have her at his side, his sister in death, and to know that George was sleeping peacefully in the room above.

She was right, he had been around long enough to be her grandfather. He knew of the dangers. And he could look out for her. For George.

He was not human, he would never be. But it was the closest thing.


End file.
